"I'm not going."
Christian stood in front of his closet like it owed him rent and ghosted. One sad pair of joggers. One pair of clean underwear. That was all he had. All his clothes—the few clothes he owned—were in the laundry basket. Nothing to wear to the pub.
Behind him, Alec lay across the bed like a very nosy, very comfortable fashion consultant.
"And why not?"
Christian didn't even turn. "I don't have clothes."
Alec scoffed. "You have limbs and a face. That's enough."
Christian shot him a deadpan glare over his shoulder. "Not showing up half-naked to team night."
"Then lucky for you, I am always prepared." Alec sprang to his feet and left the room without saying anything else.
Christian closed the closet and sat on the bed. It was hard enough to go on team nights when he had clothes. Showing up in pajamas? Not happening.
"You're a size 'brooding but hot,' right?" Alec returned with a pile of clothes in his hands. He tossed over dark jeans, a fitted black tee, and a deep green hoodie that looked suspiciously expensive.
Christian caught it mid-air. "You really want me to wear your clothes?"
"Of course," Alec said with a wink. "You have five minutes to dress up or I'm putting them on you myself. Five. Minutes." He gestured dramatically with his hand.
"Thanks."
Alec was already out of the room, and Christian was half embarrassed, half grateful. All this borrowing stuff reminded him of his best friend back home—someone he suddenly missed like hell.
Alec's clothes were a little big, but not in a bad way. Everyone wore baggy stuff these days. Dressed and ready, Christian opened the door and waited for Alec's verdict.
"You look so hot!" Alec was never shy with compliments. Christian, on the other hand, had no idea what to do with them.
"Let's go! They're waiting for us."
The pub was packed. Warm. Loud. Sticky floors and hazy golden lighting that made even beer look like champagne. The team had already taken over the back corner. Kimmy half-standing, half-manning the chaos like he ran the place. Kai sipped water like it was holy. And then—there was Caleb.
Legs spread. Beer in hand. Hoodie unzipped over a second-skin black shirt. Eyes locked on the door the second they walked in.
Christian felt it—before he saw it. That stare—low, intense, territorial—hit him harder than the pub heat.
Alec threw an arm around his shoulders like a proud stylist revealing a runway model. "Behold my latest masterpiece! Christian Evans. Styled by yours truly."
Kai blinked. "The hoodie makes your hair and eyes pop. Very strategic color choice."
Kimmy grinned. "Hot damn."
Christian flushed, suddenly very aware that Caleb hadn't looked away once. His eyes had narrowed—just slightly. Like he was calculating something.
Christian tugged the sleeves self-consciously as he slid into the booth next to Alec. And maybe he was an idiot. Or just self-destructive. But he lifted the collar of Alec's hoodie. Sniffed.
It smelled… decent. Woodsy. Clean. Classy. But it didn't smell like—
He shouldn't have done it. Not again. But back in the dorm, when Caleb wasn't around, Christian had this... problem. A habit, really. One he couldn't shake. He'd pretend to tidy up, fix his side of the room, and then he'd find himself hovering near a hoodie left on the back of a chair. Or a T-shirt tossed onto a shelf. Just for a second. Just long enough to press the fabric to his nose and inhale like an addict looking for a hit.
Caleb's scent was all heat and spice and something dangerously addictive. It made Christian feel things he had no business feeling. So now, sitting in Alec's hoodie and sniffing the collar on autopilot, he was chasing a ghost. Something that didn't belong to Alec at all.
"You like it?" Alec's voice cut in, smug.
Christian dropped the collar. "Yeah. It's nice." But it wasn't his. And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.
Caleb saw everything. Of course he did. His jaw tightened the second Alec opened his smug mouth. "Behold my latest masterpiece…" That alone made his fingers curl around his glass. But when Alec added "Styled by yours truly," and Caleb realized Christian—his Christian, dammit—was wearing Alec's hoodie? Something dark flared hot and fast in his chest.
A hoodie wasn't just fabric. It was scent. Skin. Claim. And seeing Christian in someone else's scent, someone else's stuff, made Caleb want to flip the damn table. He had no right, he knew that. But the possessiveness came anyway—loud, ugly, territorial. Like every inch of Christian wrapped in Alec's green hoodie was a direct attack on his self-control. And when Christian lifted the collar to sniff it? Caleb nearly lost it. He wasn't even in the mood to be subtle anymore.
Christian was just starting to relax—just enough to pretend he didn't feel Caleb watching him from across the table—when the universe said: not tonight, babe.
Caleb walked back from the bar, fresh drink in hand. And then it happened.
Splash.
Cold. Sticky. Right down the front of Alec's precious hoodie.
"Shit," Caleb said, way too casual. "Didn't see your elbow."
Christian stood so fast the chair squeaked. "Are you serious?"
Alec looked like he was witnessing the murder of his child. "Dude," he breathed, voice full of betrayal. "That hoodie was a limited edition." It wasn't just annoyance—it was grief. Pure, fashionable grief.
He clung to Kimmy's side, pressing his cheek to the broad shoulder like the world had ended. Kimmy, ever the team's rock, patted his back with quiet understanding, as if Alec hadn't just lost a piece of clothing but a piece of his soul.
The drama wasn't loud—it was theatrical in the way only Alec could pull off. Tragic. Poetic. Almost noble. And Kimmy? He let him have it. Held steady like the world's softest bouncer, comforting his fallen fashion prince.
Caleb just peeled off his own hoodie. "Relax. I got it."
And then? Then he dressed Christian. Like this was a thing. Like he did it all the time.
Hands on his waist. Hoodie up. Hoodie down. Caleb's hoodie on Christian's body. Like it was supposed to be there. And Caleb? He leaned in, lips near Christian's ear, low enough that no one else could hear.
"You looked too good in something that wasn't mine."
Christian's brain short-circuited.
Caleb stepped back, smug as hell, and took the seat next to him this time, heart still racing, pretending to sip his drink while secretly watching every shift of Christian's shoulders under the hoodie.
His hoodie. Not Alec's.
Not some borrowed fabric soaked in another guy's cologne. His.
The sight hit deeper than it should've. Like he'd just marked territory without ever laying a hand. It wasn't just about the hoodie—it was the principle. The image of Christian Evans walking into that pub wrapped in someone else's scent had made something primal in him snap.
He couldn't stand it. Couldn't breathe through it. And now, watching Christian tug the sleeves like they fit better, like they were meant to be there—Caleb felt a dangerous swell of satisfaction in his chest.
He had no right. But hell if that ever stopped him before.
Everything after that blurred. Christian could barely hear the team's chatter over the pulse in his throat. Caleb's scent wrapped around him like rope—warm cotton and something sharp. That hoodie was too much. Too familiar. Too Caleb.
"Relax," Caleb whispered again. "I fixed your outfit."
Christian glared. "You poured beer on me."
"I upgraded you."
"You're insane."
"And you're wearing it." Caleb smirked. "Wanna fight about it?"
Under the table, his knee bumped against Christian's. Once. Then again.
Christian shifted. Caleb shifted closer. The hoodie stretched warm across his chest, heavier than Alec's. More comfortable. More right.
Caleb didn't say another word. He didn't have to.
On the walk back, the air was cooler. Clearer. Crisp against his flushed skin like a slap he didn't ask for. But Christian still felt the heat—right under the surface, coiled like a wire pulled too tight. Caleb's hoodie clung to his frame, heavy with residual warmth, laced with a scent that felt like a secret only he got to keep. Every inhale was a betrayal. Every brush of fabric over his chest made his pulse spike.
He tried not to think about how natural it felt—like he was wearing something he'd owned forever. Like it didn't belong to someone else. Like it was already his. But his thoughts were loud and jumbled, buzzing with everything unsaid, everything stolen between stares and touches and smirks that hit too deep.
They walked in silence until Caleb stopped.
Christian stopped too. "What?"
Caleb turned, eyes unreadable. "You were quiet tonight. More than you usually are."
Christian arched an eyebrow. "You stole my hoodie and claimed me like a damn alpha. What did you want me to say?"
Caleb stepped closer. "That you liked it."
Christian laughed, but it was breathless. "You poured beer on me, Caleb."
"Yeah. And you still let me dress you."
"I didn't let you—"
"You could've stopped me."
Christian's mouth opened. Closed.
Caleb took another step. "You didn't say anything. Like you wanted to be claimed."
Christian's breath hitched. And then Caleb kissed him.
The kiss hit like a lightning strike—hot, fast, and impossible to brace for.
Christian's breath stuttered, his heart tripping over itself as Caleb's mouth claimed his with a kind of urgency that left no room for hesitation.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't soft. It was a storm made of everything they hadn't said, everything they'd pretended not to want.
Christian's fingers curled into the fabric of Caleb's shirt before he could stop himself, like anchoring was the only way to survive it.
And Caleb—Caleb kissed like he meant it. Like this had been simmering under his skin for too long. His hands fisted at Christian's waist, grounding him, pulling him closer, like he didn't just want the kiss—he needed the confirmation that Christian was his. For a second, the world blurred.
There was only breath, and heat, and the unspoken truth that this—whatever it was—had already claimed them both.
When he pulled back, Caleb's voice was soft. "Next time, don't wear another man's clothes."
He turned, hoodie-less, and walked away like he hadn't just wrecked Christian's entire nervous system.
And Christian? He stood there, drowning in heat and cologne and everything he couldn't say out loud.
But one thing was clear:
He wasn't giving the hoodie back.